


Old Hat

by maximum_overboner



Category: Villainous (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen, Humourous, Minific, black hat gets very drunk and complains, light hearted, poking fun at beloved cliches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 11:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11713143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maximum_overboner/pseuds/maximum_overboner
Summary: Black Hat forces Flug to think on the tricks of the villainous trade.





	Old Hat

**Author's Note:**

> i do love goofy nonsense

The day was not a good one.

They had dropped by the bar with its codes, its secret doors, its illicit arms deals and its inner cabal of villains, to lick their wounds. Another loss; the death ray meant to annihilate whatever it touched at a sub-atomic level instead made the recipient smell gently of sandalwood and this failure was broadcast on live television to millions. Black Hat and Flug sat on their barstools, nursing their wounded pride. Flug took the brunt of the disdainful looks. Even the novices knew not to cross Black Hat, even if his staff weren’t the best around.

“Sandalwood,” he slurred, running his finger around the rim of the glass, so drunk that even his own anger was a fuzzy haze in the distance. “It’s not even the worst of the scents. We couldn’t even pretend we meant to do that.”

“I know, sir. I forgot to carry the one.” 

“Bloody right you did.”

Black Hat downed his shot, now quite plastered.

“Farce after farce after farce. When does it end?”

Flug sighed, unsure. He had shed his lab coat an hour ago, the bar stuffy, the air reeking of smoke. Black Hat had done the same, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and puffing away at a cigarette. He exhaled a smoke ring, flicking his reptilian tongue, the low hum of conversation around them.

“Look, villainy is a…” 

His eye drooped, unfocused, and his monocle sat askew.

“... A trade. A trade like any other. There are certain rules you have to follow, certain codes you have to know off by heart. And I don’t think you know them all. That’s why you’re failing, I’m sure of it. That and you’re an incompetent moron, but I’m not a miracle worker.”

“Isn’t having rules for villainy a little... Counterproductive?”

Black Hat smacked his hand to his face, nearly tearing it off.

“Life, Flug, life enforces them! If you broke one nobody here would break down your door to beat you, but you would get your arse whipped by some novice of a superhero and we would all know why. And we would come here. And laugh at you. Maybe stick your head on a pike, it depends. Could be a happy hour thing.”

“Are they written down somewhere?” 

“No, no, of course not, then any reject in spandex could look them up. It’s common sense. For example…”

He took another drink.

“You’re squaring off with the hero on… On a skyscraper. That’s where a lot of these things happen. If you’re fighting on the ground level, that’s the build up, for some reason it ends on the skyscraper.” 

“That’s so dangerous.” 

“I know.” 

“What if someone falls.” 

“That’s the point, Flug. In any case you always, always let them get one punch in. No matter how much it hurts you, no matter how much damage it does, let them land a single punch. Then look up from under the rim of your hat--”

Black Hat looked at him disdainfully.

“-- Or bag. Then say something like…”

He hemmed and hawed, motioning with his hands as he thought. He put on his most scornful tone, taking Flug by surprise and drawing a few admiring glances from onlookers.

“Aha, you fool-- always call them a fool, they hate it, if that fails calling them a buffoon works-- aha, you fool, your attacks have no effect on me! That demoralizes them instantly. Suddenly a simple fight turns into a fifteen-minute long flashback where they recall what their master, or their dead dad or whatever, said to them when they gained their powers, and if you’re sneaky you can just push them over. They tip like overfed, traumatized cows. Right over. You, and I cannot stress this enough, you never let them get to the end of whatever train of thought they’re hurtling down because if they think for even a moment that their friends are cheering them on then you’ve already lost. I hate it, you hate it, but it’s true, and it’s a real risk.”

Flug scribbled in his notepad, listening intently. He sipped his margarita delicately. 

“But sir, what if the attack does have an effect on me? You have all those powers, but if I get cornered and I don’t have any gadgets to hand--”

“Then your ribs will cave but you can’t let them know. Even if your lungs have been pulped to mist and you shit out your kidneys halfway across the city from the force, let them get the hit in. It’s critical. Even if it means having to forgo the laugh. How is your laugh, anyway?”

Flug, nervous in crowds (and everywhere else) let out a weak laugh, accidentally snorting halfway through. It petered off.

“You aren’t watching your grandfather fall down the stairs, come on man, from the diaphragm.” 

He tried again, weaker, and failed again. Black Hat rolled his eye.

“Fine, fine, maybe you just have a different style.” 

Black Hat cackled again, this time shrill, quick and high, like a hyena.

“Do that.” 

Flug did, but it came across as stilted and half hearted. Embarrassed, he let out a goofy, sincere chuckle. Black Hat looked at him flatly.

“Fine, fine, we’ll say you’re not the laughing sort. Be… I don’t know, stoic, be stoic. Don’t laugh when you’re on camera, don’t laugh if our door gets kicked down by a roaming band of be-suited morons, don’t laugh when you’re on the job.”

“What if something funny happens?” 

“A smirk at most.” 

“Aw…” 

“And-- if you’re going to create a series of elaborate deathtraps, and far be it from me to deny you that basic pleasure-- carry some sort of gun. If they can punch through the concrete they can punch through your sternum. And if you see them just shoot, no monologue, no speech, just shoot. But! And it’s a big but--”

Flug tittered. Black Hat threw him a glare, then moved on.

“-- But if it’s some Z-list degenerate that couldn’t fight a blind child then monologue away. Dump your whole life story on him. Free therapy. You’re melting him anyway, may as well use him as a misery sponge. But the most important thing to a villain is style.”

“Style, sir?” 

“Style. I’m a walking cliche, I’m aware. But that’s not because I copy, oh no. Look around you. Look at all the expensive coats, the tailored suits and the moustache twirling. I didn’t take those, they were taken  _ from _ me _.  _ We get the best outfits, the best music-- have you ever seen a squeaky clean hero crank out a blistering organ solo-- the best speeches, the best everything, so we have a high standard to maintain! I’d rather lose the mansion, or you, than my jacket. You look like you were kicked out of an improv group for shouting abuse at the audience; jeans, shirt and a lab coat? And a bag? A bag, Flug?” 

Flug grabbed his bag, crumpling the pointed edges.

“The bag stays. And I like the rest, it’s-- it’s comfortable.”

“Comfort shouldn’t come into it! And mad scientist? Really?” 

“H-Hey, hey, it’s a cool idea! All the fun of science, and-- and all the terror of… Of bad science.”

“Stop. Stop, or I’ll piss with fear. For that, you’re buying this round.” 

“I’ve bought every round.” 

“Good, it’s been a long day.”

Black Hat raised his hand to the barkeep to signal him to keep them coming, then nodded to Flug.

“Eighteen whiskeys isn’t going to fix this mess,” Black Hat mumbled. 


End file.
